


Size Matters

by My_Good_Omens_Hackverse



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale’s gramophone, Chaucer smut, Crowley and Aziraphale dance, Fluff, M/M, Post WWII, Romance, Shakespeare sonnet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25198624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse/pseuds/My_Good_Omens_Hackverse
Summary: Crowley has a surprise for Aziraphale.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), The Bentley & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Size Matters

**Author's Note:**

> More fluff. Please see notes at the end for info on referenced works. And many thanks for reading!

London 1959

Crowley pulled up in front of Aziraphale’s bookshop and ‘parked,’ making even less of an effort at it than usual - it wasn’t his fault he had bigger things on his mind than pedestrians and curbs and traffic laws. It was up to the Bentley, then, to apply the brakes and do its best impression of a parked car. Crowley glanced at the large square envelopes stacked on top of the unmarked wooden crate in the seat next to him, wondering how he was going to get it all out of the car and into Aziraphale’s shop. ‘Pff. Details,’ he thought. What was important was that very soon Aziraphale would be amazed and excited and happy, which never failed to make Crowley amazed and excited and happy.

The sidewalk was too crowded for any obvious supernatural shortcuts, so it was just Crowley and the box and a few slightly bent laws of physics. Wrestling the box out of the car was an awkward danceand he was just wondering how he was going to manage the bookshop door without even two fingers free to snap with, when it swung open. Crowley was no more careful driving a box than a car, and it was Aziraphale this time who had to stand on his brakes.

“Oh! ” said Aziraphale.

“Thanks, angel,” grunted Crowley as he pushed past, somehow avoiding injury to both Aziraphale and the box.

“ Er, Crowley, I was just on my way out.”

Crowley set the box down in the middle of the room, and exhaled heavily. “Not to worry, I have everything under control.”

It made Aziraphale nervous  when Crowley said things like that, but he didn’t have time to discuss it.  “I’ll be back in an hour,” he told the demon,  whose attention was on the crate.” No open flames, if you please.”  The door had  almost closed when Aziraphale’s blond head poked back inside, looking apologetic. “Er, what’s in the box?” he asked fretfully. Crowley grinned. “Never mind,” sighed Aziraphale, “just tell me it’s not alive.”

Crowley paused in the act of rolling up his sleeves and said“You have absolutely nothing to worry about! G’on!” he motioned Aziraphale out, “I’ll be just fine.”

“Yes, well, your wellbeing is not what…” Aziraphale gave up – there was that grin again. He had learned that non-answers and maniacal smirks from Crowley were signs that everything was relatively normal, if not exactly ‘nothing to worry about.’ He rolled his eyes, muttered a small prayer, and left. 

Crowley circled the large crate, rubbing his hands together, more thoughtful than fiendish. He lifted the top and stood for a moment, admiring the view and inhaling the smell of polished wood and newly oiled machinery. He stepped back, snapped his fingers, and the sides of the box fell away.

It was a gramophone. Made to Crowley’s specifications, it was old-fashioned on the outside (complete with a large, shiny sound horn), but with enough technology on the inside to make it functional and relevant. The jewels in this crown, though, were the small stack of ten-inch records still waiting on the box top. The hard part, Crowley knew, would be to convince Aziraphaleto try them. Aziraphale had been personally, _deeply_ , offended by the sound that came out of the first shellac discs (he had actually accused Crowley of trying to make his ears bleed!). The whole thing was a disaster ending with Aziraphale insisting that the gramophone, the recordings, and Crowley leave immediately. ‘A reasonable reaction,’ Crowley had thought at the time, ‘if a bit dramatically expressed.’ He had remained in the angel’s good graces, but the gramophone had not been invited back.

Aziraphale had been right, of course – the recordings were shockingly bad. Since then, Crowley had directed a lot of funds into the research and development department of the Radio Corporation of America (convincing Hell that improved sound quality in records was evil hadn’t been easy) and some rather impressive strides had been made - even Crowley could hear the difference. But the latest stereophonic discs weren’t easy to get, even for an investment, er, angel, like himself – hell, he’d almost had to sell both his legs for these records – but if they made Aziraphale happy it would all be worth it. 

It didn’t take Crowley long to set everything up in the back room, and he  was just putting  a record on the turntable when the  shop’s  door opened. He  stepped in front of the gramophone  just  as Aziraphale appeared.

“Ah,” said Aziraphale,  hanging up his coat,  “there you are. Bookshop is still in one piece, I see.”

“Yes, well,  didn’t have enough time to do any proper damage,” Crowley  coughed a short, tense laugh and straightened his waistcoat.  All of a sudden,  he was nervous – what if Aziraphale wasn’t impressed? It was embarrassing being tossed out of a bookstore by an angel in a tartan bow tie! But besides that, he genuinely wanted to impress Aziraphale.

“Crowley…” said Aziraphale darkly, when he saw the gramophone.

In the end, Aziraphale was as pleased as Crowley had hoped, and they spent the rest of the day and a good part of the night listening to quite good recordings of various symphonies, concertos, sonatas, and the like. Or, rather, Aziraphale listened, delighted, and Crowley watched, unable to get enough of the light in Aziraphale’s eyes that was by turns soft and intense and everything in between. The music was but the soundtrack to Aziraphale’s performance, as far as Crowley was concerned.

After that  he tried to bring a  new  record with him whenever he visited, which meant that Aziraphale’s collection grew quickly.

One day, Crowley arrived during business hours.  This happened  only sometimes -  he knew Aziraphale didn’t especially like him slithering around when the shop was open (Crowley chose to believe this was because  Aziraphale didn’t want to mix business with pleasure).  He walked past the few customers and past the nonplussed  book dealer. “Angel,” he murmured. 

Despite his very mild irritation, Aziraphale leaned sideways as Crowley sauntered by, to see whether there was a record tucked under his arm. There was. Crowley started the gramophone and turned to watch Aziraphale. Normally, the angel’s reaction as he recognized the music was Crowley’s favorite part, but there would be no recognition today. As Nat King Cole’s voice poured gently from the horn, Aziraphale cocked an eyebrow, but said nothing. One or two of the humans looked up in appreciation, but then left abruptly as Crowley snapped his fingers. He turned the sign in the window to ‘closed,’ drew down the shade, and locked the door behind the last customer.

“Well,” said Crowley, almost  teasingly,  “what do you think?”

“It’s… different, from what I usually listen to, obviously,” said Aziraphale carefully, “but it’s not unpleasant. Is this … are they recording parlor music now?”

Crowley’s smirk was actually rather kind and patient. He wasn’t sure how Aziraphale could be so behind the times, nor could he figure out how Aziraphale made it such an endearing quality – it made him want to scream and smother Aziraphale with kisses at the same time. He poured them both a drink. “Ehhhh, not exactly. You’ve heard of jazz, have you?” Crowley gazed at Aziraphale’s puzzled expression (something else only Aziraphale could pull off).

“Oh!” said Aziraphale, “Is this be-bop?”

“No, this is Nat King Cole,” Crowley explained, “from America,”  he added quickly, hoping to avoid any  confusion with Old King Cole that would steer the conversation to a weird place. “He has a rather amazing voice, don’t you think? Almost,”  Crowley shrugged, “angelic? One of your blessings made good,  perhaps?”

Aziraphale raised his chin and put on his professorial face – the one with a slight squint that he brought out when he Imparted Knowledge. He took a deep breath. “Ah yes, well, historically speaking, blessing a child with a preternaturally beautiful voice is not unheard of (even in the colonies), although now that castrati have for some reason fallen out of favor,”

(Crowley winced at this. Castrati had been his idea \- it had been a joke on the church, one he had never dreamed would catch on. Hell had been thrilled, of course. Crowley had uncorked a very expensive bottle of champagne when the practice was finally outlawed.)

“it happens less often.  We like to encourage our,  er, beneficiaries to devote their gifts to God, you see.  Thank you,” he said, accepting a glass from Crowley.

Crowley watched for a moment as the music and Aziraphale and the wine settled into each other. “You know, angel,” he said, “I’ve seen how music moves you.” Aziraphale paused mid-sip; Crowley’s voice had taken on a different intensity. If Crowley were talking to a mortal, Aziraphale was sure this would eventually work itself into a temptation.“And I’ve seen your Gavotte,” Crowley smiled as Aziraphale turned bright red and opened his mouth as if to protest, but then closed it.

And then opened it to say, “What?  When? You have not, you scoundrel!”

“Well I wasn’t sure it was you  at the time  (the amount of secrecy around that club of yours!), but thank you for confirming it.”  Crowley  refilled his glass to give Aziraphale  time to  get properly flustered.

Aziraphale  was about to explain how Crowley hadn’t actually seen whatever else he might’ve thought he’d seen at the gentleman’s club, but decided against it. Instead, he  scowled through a violent blush.

“Anyway,” said Crowley,” people dance to this music, too, you know,” he gestured at the gramophone.

“What is your point?” huffed Aziraphale, smoothing his figurative feathers.

“My point,” said Crowley,  “is  that  dancing is fun (you know that already), this music is objectively excellent, and, so,  yes, now you’re properly hydrated,  you should take this opportunity to give real dancing a try.  ‘Broaden your horizons,’ as  humans say.”

“Don’t be gauche,” said Aziraphale primly sticking to his guns, “angels don’t dance.”

They went back and forth about it, but time and alcohol and Nat King Cole were on Crowley’s side, and  finally  Crowley  thought he could see Aziraphale’s resolution waver. He restarted the record and  tipsily beckoned to Aziraphale.  “Up with you, angel.”

Aziraphale, also tipsy, stood.  “May I?”  he  asked, reaching for Crowley’s glasses. He somehow understood Crowley’s  confused frown as an invitation to do whatever he wanted, and  suddenly  Crowley found himself  in Aziraphale’s arms with a naked face. It all happened so fast, it took him a few seconds to realize Aziraphale was looking at him expectantly. “I’m afraid you’ll need to take the lead, dear,” he said.

For a being that didn’t dance (much), Aziraphale was surprisingly light on his feet.  He only stumbled twice, although the second time might have been intentional, so that Crowley  had to hold him just a little closer.

As the record ended, Crowley reluctantly let Aziraphale go. He bowed deeply. He could feel a curious current of energy where the angel’s body had pressed against his, and he had to make a conscious effort to keep his knees from turning to jelly. Of course, Aziraphale was feeling the same things. Both looked at the floor, and so neither noticed the other blushing.

After a quiet moment, Crowley cleared his throat and stole a look at Aziraphale. “Well,” he said, “that wasn’t so bad, for not being Mozart, eh? It even had an orchestra!”

Aziraphale, chuckled and looked up. “Yes, that was very nice indeed, thank you, Crowley! I didn’t know you were such an accomplished dancer!”

Crowley fumbled for his sunglasses  and his wits  and took his leave as gracefully as he could – this only meant that he  managed to express something  like ‘good night’  and make it out the door  without tripping and falling.

Crowley knew what it was like to fly –  being free of the weight brought on by the world and all its cares – but that was nothing compared to what he felt now, after being so close to Aziraphale.  He felt the atoms in his body threatening  to  float away from each other, further and further away, until nothing was left of him but love for an angel. ‘What a strange way to discorporate,’ he thought hazily. This time the Bentley had to take care of the braking, and the steering, and the gas, and the shifting of gears, until Crowley found himself parked outside his flat with no idea how he got there.

Aziraphale was also struggling to keep himself together. Dancing with Crowley was intoxicating in a way wine never was, nor was it a feeling that could it be miracled away, although a small doubt nibbled the edge of his heart. He never knew what to expect from Crowley, apart from the fact that he was often nearby. Aziraphale had long, long ago accepted that it was not coincidence that Crowley was always there when needed, but he had never worked out the demon’s motives. After hundreds of years of arguing with himself, Aziraphale always ran into the same impossible conclusion: Crowley’s actions were expressions of love – what else could they be? But demons didn’t love. _Couldn’t_ love. It was simple fact. True, Aziraphale felt the unmistakable, almost unbearable lightness that meant love whenever Crowley was around, but he assumed this was his own – ineffable? - love for Crowley. He sighed as he put these thoughts, like a well worn book, carefully aside. He restarted the record and settled into the couch (Crowley’s side, when Crowley was there) with a mug of hot cocoa, letting Mr. Cole sing “And while there’s moonlight, and music and love and romance…” a song that, as far as Aziraphale could tell, was about dancing with Crowley.

——————

One rainy day, Crowley strolled into the shop. Rain didn’t bother him very much; thousands of years ago he had taken shelter under a certain angel’s wing, but that had just been an excuse to be closer to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale greeted him with a smile. “Crowley. Nice weather we’re having,” he said, trying  to hide his disappointment - it looked as if Crowley had come empty handed.  “Did you,  er, forget something? In the car, perhaps?”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley was genuinely surprised, “you of all angels!”

“I’m sorry, but I ’d heard  a recording was made of the performance of Schubert’s 8th symphony last month that I wasn’t able to go to, and I was hoping … Well. . .”

Crowley folded his arms. He let his voice break pathetically, “I’m truly hurt!”

“Oh, really, you know I much prefer your company to almost any record,” and he winked at Crowley. “Come dance with me,” Aziraphale said coyly, “let me sweep you offyour feet.”

As  Crowley stepped forward , a square paper envelope he had been hiding under his coat fell to the floor.

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. He picked up the plain white  sleeve, turning it over. He glanced at Crowley before removing the small record inside. “What is this?”

Crowley cringed  at Aziraphale’s tone – it was almost dismissive.  “It’s a record,” he said.  “Cute, isn’t it? ”

“But…” Aziraphale frowned, “it’s so… small!”

Crowley shoved his hands in his pockets,  defensively.  “It works just the same as the ten inch ones – pop  it on the turntable and presto, one  swooning angel.”

“Yes, but the angel swoons longer with a larger…” Aziraphale said plaintively.

Crowley raised his eyebrows. “Yes ?”

“Well, the size of the thing makes a difference, that’s all I’m saying,” said Aziraphale. “Are you going to play it or not?” he asked, a little embarrassed at his own lack of tact.

Crowley examined his fingernails. “I don’t know, angel,” said Crowley, sarcasm bleeding around the edge of his voice, “I wouldn’t want to… underwhelm you.”

Aziraphale tsked. He could see he wasn’t going to win this one. While Crowley hung up his hat and coat, Aziraphale set the seven-inch record on the turntable and gingerly set the needle. He held his breath, waiting for the sound to unfold in the room like it always did, like a peculiar flower. He was so intent he didn’t notice that Crowley had stopped moving too, so that there was no sound but what came from the little disc. Even the busy city outside had gone completely still. The world was miraculously silent. And then, a _very_ deep voice said _very_ slowly,

“And at the wyndow out she pitte hir hole…”

Crowley was across the room instantaneously, unable to snap his fingers fast enough.

“Good lord, Crowley, was that…” Aziraphale started.

“Urgh, bloody hell,” Crowley swore, “I, er had meant for you to hear the other side first.”

“…Chaucer?” finished Aziraphale.

Crowley could only groan and shake his head at his abominable luck. He took a breath to steady himself, turned the record over, and restarted the turntable, this time at the correct speed. He willed his hand to stop shaking, so as not to scratch the vinyl.

The record began, “When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,  I all alone  beweep my  outcast state… ”

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat as Crowley’s baritone softly and earnestly began to recite Shakespeare’s 29th sonnet. He turned to Crowley.

“Do you like it?” asked Crowley.

But Aziraphale  couldn’t say anything. He lowered himself carefully  onto the couch and there he stayed, motionless, until the needle found the middle of the record. He looked down, and tried to pretend he wasn’t wiping a tear from his eye.  “Crowley,” he said, a little breathless, “that was heavenly!”

“Angel!”

“Well... I’m sorry, you’re right – nothing in heaven could compare to that. I …  Thank you.”

Crowley tried not to look at Aziraphale and  realized  his glasses suddenly needed cleaning .  “Oh, of course,  it’s really  nothing , ” he mumbled.

Aziraphale rose and took one of Crowley’s hands in both of his and squeezed it. “This means the world to me,” he said, and his voice shook ever so slightly. The light in his eyes was deeper and warmer than Crowley had ever seen and he could feel it reflected in his own; he hoped Aziraphale could see it. As Aziraphale let go of Crowley the spell loosened its grip on them both, but only a little. “I can now say, however many more records I might acquire, that my collection is as of now complete.”

“You know, angel,” said Crowley, sliding his glasses back into their rightful place, “I can read to you anytime.”

Aziraphale had gone to the gramophone and was looking at the record thoughtfully.  “Ready to listen to the other side? ”

“Oh, uh, well, er, I  ngk, I  really… should be going…”

Aziraphale would never admit it, but in his opinion, Crowley’s stammers were music, too. “Right,” he said, unable to keep the love out of his voice. “We’ll save Chaucer for another time.”

Crowley was already halfway to the door.  “I’ll bring a nice big  ten-inch  disc  tomorrow, shall I?”

“Ah, well,” said Aziraphale, flashing the smile Crowley would die for, “I’m told size isn’t everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the song “Big Ten Inch Record” by Bull Moose Jackson recorded in 1952,  
> The Nat King Cole song Aziraphale listens to with his cocoa is “Let’s Face The Music And Dance” and was written by Irving Berlin in 1936,  
> The partial line from Chaucer is from The Miller’s Tale of The Canterbury Tales, and  
> Shakespeare’s 29th sonnet, is, well, Shakespeare.  
> 💕


End file.
